


blue lips, blue veins

by bold_eagle



Series: the language of limbo [1]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, Character Death, F/M, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic Description, Gratuitous psuedoscience, Other, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, blood tw, death tw, gore tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-03 01:22:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10956756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bold_eagle/pseuds/bold_eagle
Summary: They came unnoticed, at first. Like some sort of avian influenza, they hovered on the edges of major cities and unobservant centers of population.





	blue lips, blue veins

**Author's Note:**

> Chronologically, the events depicted in this piece are smack dab in between those of bad dream hotline and a handsome stranger called death. Also, the title of this particular work of fiction was inspired by the lyrics of Regina Spektor's Blue Lips.

“We didn’t notice them, at first, and how could we? They were dormant for who knows how long, quite possibly since the dawn of our species, if we consider our genetic predisposition for near-total and utter annihilation.” Newton Geiszler, tucked against a buckling lab table, began his log. His hands were shaking as they clasped around cold plastic.

 

 

This needed to be remembered.

 

 

“At first they only showed up as flu-like symptoms: fluctuating body temperatures, sweating, vomiting, and pallor of the skin. Outside of concerned parents and medical personnel, no one really gave a shit. We had bigger problems than some sort of avian influenza to pay attention to—political subterfuge, threats of thermonuclear bombardment, the death of David Bowie, you get the picture—and besides, it wasn’t hitting any major population centers, just small coastal towns with high humidity at—or just above—sea level. This was an odd phenomenon, of course, and it _did_ gain more attention when it struck San Francisco and Sacramento... because there was such a distance between the two cities, and the symptoms looked the same, but they weren’t happening with a ton of regularity. It was something to watch on the news with apathetic pity.” Newt said. His glasses slipped down his nose, slightly, and he raised a pale finger to right them.

 

 

“But then those symptoms spread through the capitol of the Philippines like a wildfire. Then they reached Sydney, Australia.” Newt coughed wetly, and paled at the sound of phlegm escaping his mouth.

 

 

“And still people thought that it was just a really bad flu, like the one of 1918, or some sort of lesser, more benign Black Plague, because it resembled, like, a shitty wet dream conceived by Wolfgang Peterson. Even I thought that it was,” another cough, “just another wave of anti-vaccination repercussions, and I’m a fucking doctor with a medical license, like, six times over… Even I was fooled.” Newt said, and then trailed off softly. He hit the pause button, dragged the palm of his left hand over his stubble, and started again.

 

 

“I know that how I’m saying all of this sounds like it took a really long time to happen. Like, that it took months for all of these symptoms—jeez, am I saying that word a lot—to occur. And they did take pretty long, initially. The first wave seemed like just a bunch of insufferably prolonged colds. Not entirely pleasant, but also not the end of the world.”

 

 

He barked out a cold, sad laugh.

 

 

“And then, after everyone was sufficiently ill, and the world was warm enough—turns out we fucking terra-formed the planet, alongside ourselves, _fuck_ —things got… really bad. We learned too late that this was more than some stupid cold.” Newt’s eyes welled up with tears and he hiccupped a bit.

 

 

“I was one of the lucky few who had yet to show any symptoms, and I had medical knowledge, so I, alongside a handful of others, was instructed to figure out why the fuck all of this shit was happening. The leaders of the world were worried, _everyone_ was worried, and people were freaking out and wanted answers, so, the best and brightest of humanity were sent out in search of a solution, or, at the very least, an explanation.”

 

 

“And so we—myself, and a handful of others, including Tendo Choi, Raleigh Becket, Hermann Gottleib, and Mako Mori—did.” His bloodshot eyes looked up at the ceiling, and he took several mucus-laden minutes to collect himself.

 

 

“Immediately, we figured out that it wasn’t airborne, and it wasn’t contractible through physical contact. We knew this, because we all had family members who were afflicted: I had my father and Uncle Illia, Hermann Gottlieb, a fellow colleague of mine, had an ill wife and potentially ill unborn child, there was Raleigh Becket’s older brother, and the father of Mako Mori, and Tendo Choi’s wife, Allison.” Newt said. “We all knew this affectation intimately, and that became a sort of driving factor. We had to find a solution, be it mathematic, chemical, medicinal, or otherwise. _We had to_.”

 

 

Newt inhaled raggedly.

 

 

“But we found nothing. No matter what we did, we couldn’t crack the code. We couldn’t find anything, outside of identifying potential triggers, like heat, and how those damn little viruses conducted their affairs. We tried everything. At this point, the disease had progressed beyond a terminal cold. Now, symptoms included an inability for the blood to clot properly, mucus-buildup, lung-spasms, and protrusion of the veins.” Vomit welled up in his throat. “Unlike the preceding cold-and-flu-like symptoms, these developed and progressed very quickly. Seizures and death typically follow within a four day period.” He said, and shuddered.

 

 

“…We started calling it Kaiju Blue, after we witnessed the first patient develop the symptoms of the second stage firsthand… It was awful. After the spasms began… good God.” Blood trickled down the side of his mouth. He hated the color blue, how it coiled underneath the skin.

 

 

“It was like we had discovered the existence of some sort of big awful demise-button, and we knew what it looked like, and what it did, but we didn’t know where it was, or who had pressed it. Obviously, it was wired somewhere within our DNA, considering that it didn't spread like an influenza, but beyond that, we were at a loss. If it was indeed an aspect of our genetic makeup, then what was the evolutionary imperative behind it? You know, like, how cystic fibrosis and mucus buildup in the lungs were evolutionary combatants of tuberculosis.” Laughter bubbled up in his chest, weak and sardonic, and slightly hysterical, until tears formed in his eyes. “We still don’t know, man, and I’m the last one here in this diseased crypt. The Shatterdome Research Facility—the medical stronghold that I was assigned to—is almost entirely abandoned, at this point. There’s no power, no food, no resources. Humanity is failing; the small pockets of what's left are probably rioting in gated communities with seven-foot thick walls and massive amounts of arms, poised at the ready. It's just... I…” His jaw clenched. “Never mind."

 

 

Newt was silent for many moments. Blood and spittle continued to crawl down his face. For a few fleeting seconds, his face contorted in rage, before relaxing.

 

 

“My name is Newton Geiszler, I have six meaningless doctorates, and everyone that I have ever known is dead.” The pace of his heart began to accelerate. “The hub in which you will find this tape, alongside my dusty, disgraceful corpse, should you still be alive, and understand English, has lost almost all contact and funding from what is left of the human race. I developed the initial symptoms of Kaiju Blue roughly seventy-two hours ago, and have since progressed to the final stages at an accelerated pace. However, I have been able to maintain my consciousness and ability to speak for the time being. As the last remaining head technician and medical professional, it is my duty to record all that I know of this terrible disease, in the hopes that someone will find this information, use it,” his lungs fluttered weakly, “and remember the lives that have been lost.”

 

 

Newt clicked the stop button of the recording device, set it aside, and rested his head on the cool metal of his lab table. The sleeves of his lab-coat were pushed up to his elbows, showing off the skin of his heavily tattooed arms.

 

* * *

 

The moments after this final stand—a final plea, really—were not so glamorous.

 

* * *

 

 

The coolness of the steel juxtaposed the haphazardness of his heartbeat. He knew the signs, he had witnessed them firsthand, and morbidly acknowledged that, within the next few hours he would… that he would... Big, ugly tears began to fall down his face. He had progressed to the second stage in an incredibly short time, shorter than an average case, but the newness made it seem like an eternity. He had only shown symptoms for the second stage for thirty-six hours. He tentatively reached out one hand to grip the side of his neck, and, sure enough, there was the fell beast, pushing against his veins.

 

His eyes shot down to his arms. _Oh God._ It was like his flesh was alive. Like there were snakes curling under the bright reds and blacks and yellows of his wrists.

 

More bile rose in his throat. It wouldn’t be long, now.

 

After the contractions impacted the superficial veins, they would go deeper, towards the perforator veins and associated arteries, before finally making their way to the pulmonary veins, and cutting off oxygen availability to the heart. It was a specific type of helplessness, knowing what would happen but being unable to stop it.

 

Newt stood up suddenly, with the intent of going to his private lab, and the thought that maybe he could stop it, that by some stroke of luck he could stave off death flashed across his mind.

 

 _I don’t want to die. Not like this. Please._ His feet carried him a handful of steps before his lungs gave out.

 

* * *

 

He fell.

 

* * *

 

 

Even though he had seen life lost innumerable times, it still took him by surprise how ungraceful the act of dying was.

 

He hit the floor with a sharp _crack,_ and the skin and fat that cradled his skull split upon the force of the impact. Spittle curdled in his throat and bubbled out of his mouth as his muscles began to spasm due to lack of blood-flow. His eyes roamed the room frantically, and he—with what little strength he had left—grabbed at the flesh above his heart, like it was an open wound, like he could stop it.

 

Not like this. _Please God, not like this._

 

* * *

 

A halo of red bloomed around matted brown hair and frightened, dulling eyes.

  

* * *

 

 

_Fin._

 


End file.
